Five

Silas had arrived in the city four years previously, a fish out of water, and quickly learned how to live on the streets. He realised after a month that the few saved coins he possessed were not going to last him long, work was not going to be easy to find, and starvation was not a way of life. He had been sure of only two things. Since his mother had died, he was solely responsible for the welfare of his younger, twin sisters until they were married. He left them behind in the care of the cousin, but she needed to feed them, and Silas had promised, with his usual confidence, that he would find a way of sending money.

The reality, of course, was different. Had it not been for a fortuitous encounter with a tall Ukrainian on a November night, he would undoubtedly have died in his sixteenth year.

He had met Andrej in Cutpurse Lane in broad daylight. Needing to relieve himself, he slipped from the bustle of East Street and approached what he thought was a vacant, well-hidden niche between two windowless buildings. He was looking back to ensure no-one was watching, and didn’t see that the space was in use. He had his fly unbuttoned and was fishing for his dick as he stepped in and turned.

Confusion struck him as unexpectedly as it did the boy looking back at him. Tall, with a long mane of blond hair and blue eyes wide in surprise, the lad was facing him and let loose a string of incomprehensible words that could only have been foul. Silas was desperate to piss and already had his cock in his hand, but he would have fled had there not been a third man in the tight space.

He was on his knees, his back to Silas and his face buried in the other boy’s groin. The realisation of what was taking place coursed through Silas’ veins in an instant and horror and excitement collided. The blond was stunning, the other man was sucking his cock and Silas’ first thought was to wonder if he would be allowed a go. That ridiculous notion was forgotten when he saw that, unknown to the lad, the man was drawing from his pocket a flick-knife, presumably to rob him or worse.

‘Fuck off,’ the blond said in a richly accented voice. ‘My place.’

Silas had no choice, but to do what he did, and he let go a stream of steaming piss that splashed the kneeling man causing him to break away and stagger back, complaining loudly. Silas crunched his boot over the knife, trapping a couple of the man’s fingers and forcing him to let it go, heard him swear, and continued to piss at him while he scurried away. That left him with his dick in the wind staring at the tall blond and marvelling at the size of his cock left dripping and on show.

‘Why you fuck that up?’ the blond shouted, seemingly unbothered by his condition.

Silas kicked the knife as he shook the last drops from his dick. The blond saw it, and his shoulders slumped.

‘I get no luck,’ he complained, shrugging as if falling prey to knife attack while getting his cock sucked was a regular occurrence. He looked from the blade to Silas, and his attitude changed. ‘Spasibo. Thanks.’

‘Sorry I disturbed you,’ Silas replied, attending to his fly, but unable to take his eyes off the length of meat still standing proudly above the boy’s massive balls beneath a crown of corn-coloured hair.

‘You want?’ the youth asked.

‘Fuck me, yes.’ Silas had hankered for male love and attention since he could remember, but this was the first time he had seen another boy’s dick so close and in such a condition.

‘Two shillings, I fuck.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I need money. Five shillings you fuck.’

‘Hang on…’

‘I spend in your mouth, one shilling, your hand, six pennies, you spend in me I cut your throat.’

Silas’ head buzzed as he tried to take in the information, and then realisation dawned.

‘I ain’t got money,’ he said. ‘Sorry, mate, only came here for a piss. Are you going to put that away?’

‘Why you not want?’ The youth was hurt.

‘Oh, I want, mate,’ Silas said. ‘But I ain’t got money.’

‘You get money.’

‘Yeah, that would be good. I’ll come back tomorrow.’ He buttoned his coat while gawping at the cock. Like his, it was hooded, unlike his, it was at least eight inches in length and curved slightly to the right.

‘Yours. Let me see.’

‘Get away with you, man,’ Silas objected.

‘You get much if you use this….’ The blond pointed to his temple. ‘And that.’ He pointed to Silas’ crotch. ‘And these.’ He held up his fists. ‘But mostly that and this.’ His dick and his head.

‘Look, mate,’ Silas babbled, preparing to leave. ‘I don’t mind telling you that thing of yours is mighty impressive and attached to a body like that with the face of a holy angel… Well, I’d best shut up and go.’ He didn’t know this youth, and he’d never felt compelled to admit his attraction to other men, but the blue eyes had recovered from their shock and were now inquisitive. Not only that, Silas was sure they were also friendly. The boy was attractive, but still a stranger.

‘Why you go?’

‘I need to look for a job.’

‘You work like me. What you name?’

So began an unlikely friendship which, for Silas started as infatuation and, for Andrej, an instant like of the dark-haired Banyak. He did eventually pull up his trousers, and when he threw a powerful arm around Silas’ shoulders and half-dragged him to a nearby pub to spend two shillings he had earned the previous night, the pair quickly fell into an easy friendship. Andrej was grateful for Silas’ timely intervention and explained that he had been working the streets since he was fourteen — a fact which, at the time, shocked Silas, but which he came to accept as common. Within a week, the pair were as close as lovers but without the sex. Andrej, it turned out, was only interested in women but never did anything about it, preferring, he said, to keep himself clean for work. Sex with men was acceptable only when accompanied by the exchange of money, and despite Silas declaring his love for him on many a drunken night, was only able to handle his prize dick on the rare occasion the two were hired together. Even then, it was only to do as the punter asked and whatever delicious acts he could perform on or with Andrej were just that, acts, at least on Andrej’s part.

After a time, as Silas learnt to be as streetwise as his same-aged mentor, he came to appreciate that their friendship was more important than sex, and the drunken declarations of love, though still regularly made, were platonic. He liked Andrej more when the Ukrainian explained that a Banyak was a cooking pot, and he used the word for Silas because a banyak was compact and cute. In turn, Silas referred to him as Fecks because he was ‘A right sexy fecker,’ which, when translated from Silas’ Irish accent, Andrej found flattering. They had been looking out for each other ever since, with Banyak helping Fecks with his English and Fecks teaching him the way of the streets.

As Silas roamed the labyrinth of alleyways between the Bells and Molly’s rope-house, he missed his only friend and wondered where he might be.

His encounter with the redhead had left him out of sorts, and the streets had a different feel to them that night. The cold snap was present in his painful fingers and toes, the lamplight shaded by drizzle and the doorways littered with the forgotten dreams of the inebriated hopeless, but there was something unfamiliar, and he couldn’t decide what. Those he passed, of all classes and nationalities, whispered as if not wanting to be heard. The lights of the opium dens and molly houses, the brothels and even the blue lamp of the police station at City Street, were dulled. It was if the East End was biding its time, waiting to hear the news of another slashed victim, another grisly murder, another desperate boy tricked and slit, left in disembowelled indignity in a yard or a square’s unlit corner.

Following the third gruesome murder nine days ago, there had been talk of civil unrest, and two days ago when word spread of a fourth messy killing, Silas sensed an increase in the unease among the homeless and housed alike. The misty night simmered with discontent which might easily boil over into riot. He’d heard a rumour that a carriage had been seen in the area of the murders and that the killer within was of royal blood. Others said that he was a mad artist driven to carnage by taking arsenic, while many believed that the man had medical training, and because the victims were street-wary, able-bodied young men, was probably in the military.

His flesh crept beneath his undershirt, although it may have been the scratching of mites, and Silas kept his wits about him as much as his celebratory gins would allow. Thomas was working on behalf of a nobleman, he’d admitted it, and going by the borough, must have travelled to Greychurch in a carriage. Was the uneasy older man with him the Ripper? He hadn’t looked the part, but then neither had the Russian by the river, the sailor or the apprentice he’d sucked off behind the Bells who, he suddenly realised, he knew to be one of the butcher boys from Cheap Street market.

Any of his punters could be the Ripper, and if he wanted to live, he had to accept that fact. He did, but it would be so much easier if he had Fecks by his side.

He avoided a trap as he crossed City Street, giving it a glance to see if the sexy redhead was driving. He wasn’t, but the sight did make him wonder about the strange offer. A… What was he? A viscount. A viscount sent his footman to bring home a lad who resembled his drawing. That was strange enough, stranger was the likeness the sketch bore to Silas. That was coincidence, there were any number of nineteen-year-olds with black hair and large eyes who would have done, and they would all skip at the chance to be entertained by someone who put ‘Lord’ in front of his name. Why was Silas worried? Thomas seemed amiable enough and genuine. Silas had read him in the time it took to sip a toothful of gin. Mid-twenties, well-built and affable, but as nervous as a choirboy in a room of cardinals.

That Thomas had been out of place was obvious, but what came as a surprise was his instant erection and the spark that Silas experienced when he first saw the man approach.

His worn boot slipped on the curb, and he stumbled. Cursing himself for dropping his guard, he checked his sole to find he had trodden in orange peel. He was about to kick it towards the bundle of rags who had undoubtedly thrown it there when he saw the girl’s hand was exposed from her blanket. With her fingers open and her palm skywards, Ellie could have been begging were it not for the pallor of her skin and Silas’ bitter experience. Her palm was not just skyward, it was heavenward, and if she was begging for anything, it was forgiveness.

He covered her as best he could and left her to whoever came picking first, the police or body-snatchers.

Entering the yard, he was relieved to see Fecks hanging around the rope-house door, swaying slightly and holding the wall for support. Better still was that Molly’s attic room light was still burning. She had not yet let the room, and not only was there a bed, but there was also a washing jug, and, if Fecks had a spare copper, they could burn a log for warmth. As Fecks hugged him, sneezed, giggled and sneezed again, Silas was as warm as he needed to be.

Archer realised he had not sat at the kitchen table since his thirteenth birthday. That was the last time his father had permitted him to mix with the servants, and even then, he was only allowed below stairs to talk with Mrs Baker about how she kept the household accounts, and to Mr Tripp to learn the cost of brass polish and bad behaviour. These ‘lessons’ were the only unorthodox thing his father had treated him to, but he insisted that the visits stop when Archer left prep school and joined the training ship at Dartmouth. His fondest memories were of sitting at the well-worn table in the servants’ hall watching Cook make her overly sweet desserts. Always accompanied by his nanny, he was not often able to engage the intriguing hall boy in conversation, but when Nanny and Cook fell to discussing the servants, they would send him to help the redhead. Among his finest memories was the time when, alone between the flour sacks and potatoes in the second pantry, allegedly looking for oatmeal, the boys had revealed to each other the contents of their breeches. He had no recollection of how that came about, but the image of Thomas’ long, pink cock stayed with him until he found more tangible playthings at naval college.

He smiled at the memory and glanced towards the kitchen, wondering how much longer he would have to wait for Tripp’s return. It was past one o’clock, but he had told them to take their time. While he waited, he attended to his plans for his charity, and reread letters from Marks, his solicitor in Shagpile Street, a name he always found amusing. Archer’s intentions for the charity were deemed philanthropic enough, but Marks, like many of the would-be trustees, was on edge about those Archer wanted to help.

The copy of his first letter to Marks made his philosophy clear; no-one else was assisting these male wretches, and something had to be done. Parliament admitted their existence and tried to legislate against them as if laws could control one man’s urge to bugger another. At least the opposition called for social change which was, without question in Archer’s mind, the root cause.

Marks’ reply tactfully pointed out that although the assistance of women in a similar position was acceptable, because they were the weaker sex, to assist sodomites was to sail unchartered and potentially turbulent water. (He had written sodomites in Latin as if too ashamed to pen the letters which, together, spelt a word for what Marks himself probably was.)

Archer countered with a bluff, declaring his intention to engage another solicitor which, Marks admitted was His Lordship’s prerogative, but would not be in his best interests. The matter was settled when Archer’s neighbour and godmother, the unorthodox but powerful Lady Marshall, was delighted to become the charity’s chairman and made the fact known in the newspapers. In the same public letter, she congratulated Marks for his forward-thinking views and courage, and spoke highly of his firm, thereby assuring him excellent business and herself, his indignant loyalty.

The charity was now at the stage where work could begin. Archer had the finance, the trustees and an inner desire to help young men, particularly (but carefully) those who like him were masculorum concubitores, in Marks’ prissy translation. If he was to be truthful, he wanted to help young homosexual men live as un-discriminated a life as those who slept with women, but to admit that publicly risked all manner of troubles. Until society evolved, he would wrap his true calling in the respectable cloak of charitable work for the destitute, which was satisfying enough. Insisting that his cause was solely boy-whores raised eyebrows among his peers, but mainly out of fear that they might, somehow, be unmasked, and if Archer’s suspicion was correct, rightly so.

Turning the letters and papers in his ribbon-bound portfolio, his mind switched to the more pressing and personal matter of the Ripper victims and his interest in them.

The first murder of such a boy had convinced him that his charity could help. The second, and the authorities’ lackadaisical attitude towards it had angered him, but the third had caused him to think about the situation in a different light.

He had seen a pattern as, presumably, had the police — and still done nothing about it — and the pattern intrigued him as much as the plight of the boys angered him. Managing to separate his feelings from the evidence, he studied what he could find and came to a disturbing conclusion. How he acted on what he deduced was another matter, and he was no detective. Neither was Inspector Adelaide, the man put in charge of the investigation who, according to the papers, had no clues and very little inclination to do anything about the murders, despite their headline-grabbing cruelty. It wasn’t Archer’s place to intervene, but he couldn’t sit back and watch without doing something. Whatever he was to do, however, had to be done carefully. If the name of Clearwater became involved, even through assistance to the investigation, the feathers of the upper classes would be ruffled, Archer’s life and motives scrutinised, and public attention would shift from the boys who were dying to the lord who had a suspicious interest in them.

Archer had to find a way to prove his theory, investigate without drawing attention and, if correct, expose the killer in such a way that the police would catch him without realising Archer had played a part. With a fourth slaying so recent and prominent and with the Ripper showing no signs of stopping, every boy on the street was in danger, and time for some was running out.

Now was the time to act and act he would, no matter how unconventional his approach.

He was reviewing his evidence with a cold heart but a fevered brain when the back door opened. Thomas admitted Tripp and a rush of cold air as stony as the butler’s face when he saw the viscount drinking whisky at the servants’ table.

‘My Lord!’ Tripp exclaimed as though Archer had been discovered at the wrong end of his own cutlass. ‘What has happened?’

‘Happened, Tripp?’ Archer replied, hurriedly tidying away his papers. ‘Nothing’s happened, except half a bottle of malt.’

‘Let me accompany you to the correct side of the baize, My lord. You will be more comfortable.’

‘I am comforted enough by your safe return, Tripp, although…’ He watched Thomas close the door. ‘I would be happier had you not returned empty-handed.’

‘Ah.’ Tripp bowed his head in his obsequious, annoying way. ‘Therein lies a tale best told by a footman,’ he said. ‘And, if I may, in the morning.’

‘I’ve not waited up half the night to be sent to bed, Tripp,’ Archer scolded. ‘If Thomas has the story, you can retire, and I shall learn from him. If you’re up for it, Thomas?’

‘I am, My Lord.’

‘Then, it’s best if I stay with you, Sir, for fear that the tale might trouble you.’

Archer laughed and made no apology for it. ‘Dear old Tripp,’ he said. ‘I am not an ancient duchess given to fainting at the drop of a social indiscretion. I have served in the navy and been to the Indies. If the atrocities I witnessed there were not enough to harden my constitution, I have also served my time in the British public-school system. Go to bed. I will need you fresh in the morning as I am giving Lady Marshall an early lunch.’

Clearly unhappy, Tripp engaged an unaffected air, bid goodnight to His Lordship and unnecessarily reminded Thomas that he, too, had duties in the morning. Archer and Thomas remained silent until the butler’s precise footsteps had faded on the backstairs and the only sound was the hissing of the gaslight.

‘I feel like I’ve just been told off by Nanny,’ Archer whispered. ‘Do you think he was really saying, “You two boys don’t be late to bed and no talking after lights out?” Silly old duffer.’

Thomas shuffled his feet uncomfortably and coughed.

Archer had embarrassed him with his overfamiliarity, and that angered him. Not because he had broken archaic rules of etiquette, but because he had to be so carefully aware of their existence. He wanted, no needed, a companion with whom he could be himself, and that need manifested itself in the way he wanted to treat Thomas, the only person inside the house close to his age.

‘I’m sorry, Thomas,’ Archer said, rising. ‘That was rude of me. Please, sit.’

‘Sit, Sir?’

‘Yes, as in…’ He wanted to tell him to park his pert arse, but he waved towards a chair instead. He brought another glass from the sideboard, and Thomas waited until Archer had sat before he followed suit, sitting opposite still wearing his master’s coat.

‘Suits you,’ Archer said, pouring a second glass of whisky and nodding to the garment.

‘Oh! Very sorry, My Lord.’ Thomas leapt to his feet and set about removing it.

‘No, no, leave it,’ Archer ordered. ‘At least wait until you warm up. Here, drink this and tell me what happened. You weren’t successful, I take it?’

Thomas stared at the drink unsure what to do, and Archer thought it time to clear the air.

‘Listen, Thomas,’ he said, leaning into the table and lowering his voice. ‘I know this is not what you are used to. This is to go no further, and certainly not to go to your head, but honestly? I am screaming out to have someone normal to speak to.’

Thomas’ head shot up.

‘Even when I’m chatting with Her Ladyship next door, I have to play the part my title demands, and I am not ungrateful for it, just fed up with having to live it all the time. Thus, as I am master in my own house, I have decided we are permitted to talk like we did when we were little, as friends. Only when I see fit, you understand. I’m sorry if this makes you uncomfortable, but try not to let it. If anything, I mean to flatter you in appreciation of your dedication. Just, don’t tell the others. Mrs Baker will lecture me, and Tripp will expire. You can’t be my public friend, Thomas, it’s not allowed, but can we pretend when we’re alone?’

Thomas had paled and his brow furrowed.

‘When I say alone, I don’t mean alone anywhere specific,’ Archer tried to clarify, sensing that Thomas thought he was insinuating, and suddenly remembered a second time he and Thomas had been over familiar in their youth. ‘Just when and where I need some normality.’

‘I am flattered, Sir,’ Thomas said with an uneasy smile. ‘But if I may?’

‘You can say what you want, Thomas. In these moments we are not viscount and footman, and nothing you can say will give me any cause for grievance at all. So, please, go on.’

‘Very good, Sir. I was going to say that, surely, for yourself, normal is above stairs in the company of educated men. Not the likes of us. Still flattered though I am by your ardour.’

‘I think the word is candour, Thomas.’ Archer felt his cheeks redden. ‘But you speak of educated?’ He emphasised the last word with derision. ‘The most highly educated men of my acquaintance are idiots when it comes to the needs of those less fortunate. That’s not the kind of normal I crave. I want this. Just two old friends in conversation about all and everything with no distinction between us. Will you agree to my second eccentric request of the day?’

‘Forgive me, Sir, but it doesn’t seem right. Apart from anything else, I am not educated.’

‘Oh, come on, man,’ Archer challenged. ‘Page two-hundred and twenty-one of Mrs Baker’s dictionary?’

‘My Lord?’

‘I know you have been educating yourself and the housekeeper has been helping.’

Thomas had evidently remembered what particular word was on the page of that book, and was aflame with embarrassment. The word in question was “catamite”. Mrs Baker had confided to Archer not long ago that Thomas’ interest in the English language appeared to have stalled on certain words and their definitions. Archer told her not to fuss, it was quite normal, and she had been happy that the subject was not discussed further.

Archer smiled knowingly. ‘I too studied Mrs Baker’s dictionary, Thomas, and whether you do so out of a need to understand yourself, or just for morbid curiosity, it shows me that you want to better yourself, and it takes an educated man to accept that he needs bettering.’

Thomas was now confused.

‘We’ll leave that subject there,’ Archer said. ‘And once again, my apologies if I shock you, but you had best get used to that as the mission we are on will bring many more uncomfortable moments, of that I am sure.’

‘Mission, Sir?’

‘All will become clear in time. For now, are you happy to accept and sit here with me as yourself?’

Thomas blinked his long, blond lashes and considered the whisky, a treat usually only reserved for New Year’s Eve. ‘As you wish, Sir.’

‘Then raise your glass to mine, Thomas, and forget for five minutes that you are my footman.’

They clinked their glasses, and Thomas copied his master in taking a sip.

‘Thank you,’ Archer said. ‘We are just two men talking about your expedition to pick up a rent boy.’

For the second time that evening, Thomas spat alcohol across a table, and for the first time since he was thirteen, Archer laughed in the kitchen and found himself talking with Thomas on the same level.

‘So, old friend,’ he said, relishing the use of the word and Thomas’ still-glowing cheeks. ‘Tell me what happened.’